Die, Blossom, Bloom

by Steve Boseley

  “I was just looking at the awful mess your garden is in,” she said. “It’s such a shame.” Ted could not be certain, but he thought the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. He had always imagined she was capable of sabotage, but never truly believed she would do anything about it. And now her grandson had paid the price for her petty desire to win a village flower contest. He was convinced she had put Jordan up to his late-night antics. She had somehow persuaded the boy to do this, and he had paid with his life. As the thought struck Ted, he felt bile climb his throat. He covered, raising a hand to his mouth to stifle a cough. Mrs Butler-Thompson appeared not to notice and continued. “With so little time left, you won’t be able to enter the competition.” She didn’t sound upset.

  “Well I still have a few days left. I think I can turn it round.” He had no desire for this woman to see how much this hurt him. His beautiful garden – his wife’s beautiful garden – was all he had left of Sissy. At that moment, his resolve was steadfast: this woman would not beat him. He may not win the ‘Haverly in Bloom’ title, in fact the odds were now decidedly against that, but he would put up the best fight he could.

  Mrs Butler-Thompson smiled. “Yes of course you can.” She glanced towards the back garden again.

  “Is there something else?”

  “No,” she said. There was a brief pause as she shifted her weight to the other foot. “Well, yes. I was supposed to be meeting my grandson this morning.” She looked back to Ted. “For a coffee.”

  “Why would he be in my garden?” Ted turned away, looking towards the back of the cottage. His skin began to prickle.

  “No reason. I’ve been searching for him all morning. Mrs Cheshire hasn’t seen him, and she knows everyone’s business.” This, at least, was true. Mrs Cheshire was the owner of what could loosely be called the village café. She had bombarded Ted with questions following Sissy’s death. Ted had not shared his wife’s illness with anyone, especially Mrs Cheshire, but that had not stopped her asking questions. When no answers had been forthcoming, she had started fabricating the truth, and several versions of what happened had been passed around the village, none correct.

  “Have you spoken with his parents?” He felt like he needed to take a deep breath, but he remained still, his voice even.

  “I have, but they tell me he sometimes comes in late and goes out early.” She turned away from Ted, and he knew she was uncomfortable. It offered an opportunity for him to take a big gulp of air, which he did.

  “Well maybe that’s what he did. Youngsters like him, he’s probably got himself a lady-friend somewhere, or perhaps him and his mates went out drinking.” He noticed his hands trembling and drove them into his pockets.

  She fixed him with a stare. “I don’t think so. My Jordan does not drink.”

  “A girlfriend then?” He shrugged and attempted a smile.

  Mrs Butler-Thompson scowled at him. “Well, thank you for your time, Mister Harris. I would thank you to keep your opinions of my grandson to yourself.” She turned on her heels and walked away. Ted sucked in more air and breathed out slowly, sinking to his knees as he did.

  Part Ten

  It was almost lunchtime the following day when Mrs Butler-Thompson returned. Ted had managed to grab a few hours sleep and had shaved. He had made significant progress on restoring his garden; most of the bedding plants were back in the borders, and he had refastened the rose to the trellis around his window. Most of the flower heads lay naked against the stem, but there was at least some colour climbing up his wall. He was on his knees digging in the border, when she leaned over his wall and cleared her throat. Ted put down his trowel and looked up. “Mrs Butler-Thompson. Did you ever find your grandson?”

  “No. No I did not,” she said. “As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Really?” Ted stood and wiped his hands on his trousers. The prickling sensation was back; Jordan’s body was still in his shed. Not only had he killed the teenager, he had dismembered him and then covered it up. He suddenly felt very sick. “How can I help?” Even in his worried state, he could tell it would be difficult for this woman to ask for his help, so he tried to savour her unease.

  She tugged on the bottom of her suit-jacket and flipped an imaginary piece of hair out of her eyes. Her face had flushed. “I think Jordan may have been coming over here a couple of days ago to see you, and I wondered if you can recall seeing him.” She shuffled her feet and dropped her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall seeing him. There was someone in my garden a few nights ago, if you recall. He pushed my wall over.” He pointed to the spot in the border where the wall had fallen.

  “Are you suggesting that was Jordan?”

  “Not at all. I was just saying.”

  Mrs Butler-Thompson looked at him for an uncomfortable length of time. Ted tried to hold the stare, but eventually blinked and looked away. “Do you know something you’re not telling me?”

  Ted shrugged and knelt back down. “Other than the secret of my wonderful garden? I don’t think so.” He busied himself with his plants but could feel her eyes on him. He resisted the urge to look up.

  “Your garden.” She was back to herself. “Well, we will see what the judges have to say about that next week. And Mister Harris,” she paused, and Ted looked up, “I don’t intend to be beaten by an outsider.”

  As she spoke, Ted felt the nausea receding. He stood once more, and she lifted her chin at him. “I’ve been in the village almost ten years now. When do I stop being an outsider?”

  “You will always be an outsider here, Mister Harris.” She reached over the wall and plucked a tulip off its stem. She tossed it to him, then turned and walked away.

  Ted went back to his planting, until she was out of sight, then he went to his shed. The black plastic bags were where he had left them. Someone would find them, sooner or later. He believed that Mrs Butler-Thompson would drag the truth out of him. That would be the end of everything he had worked for. A new hole would need digging. A deeper one this time.

  Part Eleven

  Ted stepped back to look at his work, using his handkerchief to wipe his forehead. The hole was half a spade length deep, perhaps ten or fifteen centimetres. As long as Ted, and half as wide, it had taken him most of the afternoon, and the light was fading. The piles of removed earth surrounded the hole on all four sides. The soil sat on four thick pieces of blue tarpaulin, angled towards the hole, anchored by sturdy stakes of wood. It was held suspended by an upturn in the front of the tarp. Devising the rig had taken Ted hours. His strength, or lack thereof, had played a part; he suspected that when the time came, he would not have the strength to fill the hole. His arms felt like jelly after only a few hours of shovelling, and there was more to do before it was deep enough.

  He dug for another half an hour before giving up for the day. He was struggling to see in the fading light, but he could tell his shirt was filthy and wet with his sweat. Two of the buttons had been lost during the digging, and his white vest was exposed. Running a hand through his rapidly vanishing hair, Ted dropped the spade and made his way inside the house.

  In the kitchen, he flopped into one of the hard-backed chairs and rested his head on the table, breathing hard. Burying bodies was young man’s work, and those years were now far distant in the rear view mirror. His back ached and his head thumped, but he lifted his head and looked at himself in the wall-mounted mirror across from him. What he saw scared him; his eyes were red, his face dirty, and his mouth hung open. This was not the life he had expected when he and Sissy had moved here ten tears ago. It should have been the perfect retirement: the home they had always wanted, the pace of life they had wanted, and the garden that Sissy had wanted. Instead it had turned into a nightmare; he had held a pillow over his wife’s face until she stopped breathing, and Ted thought he had sunk to depths he would not be able to extricate himself from.

  The garden had been his shining beacon guiding him from his mi
sery into a semblance of a life again. The Butler-Thompsons of the world could try to drag him back, but he always believed that his garden would save his soul and his sanity.

  But a fifteen year old boy? Ted stared deep into his blood-shot eyes. He could hear the sound of the spade on the back of the boy’s head, and he squeezed his eyes closed, wiping away the tear that slipped out, streaking mud across his face. If his wife’s end had been borne out of love and pity, what was Jordan? In his mind he replayed the dull thuds the boy’s body had made as he struck him again and again, slamming his fist against the table with each swing of the spade.

  Letting out an anguished yell, he swiped a hand across the table, connecting with one of the teacups he had placed there; Sissy’s cup. It flew against the wall and smashed, sending shards of china skittering across the floor. Ted stood up sharply causing his chair to topple backwards, slamming against the tiled floor. He threw himself down, grabbing at the broken shards of china, scattered across the floor, as he if could somehow save the cup.

  He clawed as many pieces as he could to him, picking them up. When he finally realised that the cup was lost, he sat back against the wall and stared down at the pieces held in his cupped hands. He flipped one of the larger pieces over, revealing the pink floral design. Fresh pangs of longing grabbed him as he thought of his wife, and he began to cry, silently at first, then with body shaking, wracking sobs.

  He sat that way on the floor for a while, legs out, head back against the wall. When the tears had stopped, he stood up and gently placed the pieces of the broken cup on the kitchen table, turning the pieces pattern-side up and arranging them into the flower design as best he could. When he was satisfied, he made himself another pot of tea. He moved the broken pieces across the table from him, and placed the pot, handle towards the broken cup. Spinning the pot, he poured himself a cup and sat in silence.

  Lifting his cup to his lips, Ted froze. There had been a noise outside. He gently replaced the cup and moved to the window. The back garden was shrouded in night, and the light in his kitchen made it almost impossible to see anything. He squinted, but his sight could not penetrate the darkness. He turned round as he heard another sound. It appeared to come from the front of the house.

  Moving into his living room, he left the light off. Although dark, he could make out movement by his wall. It looked as if someone was trying to replace a large stone that had been dislodged. Whoever it was, appeared to be struggling, dropping the stone on more than one occasion. The silhouetted figure appeared to be wearing a skirt, and Ted was convinced he was looking at Mrs Butler-Thompson. Her slightly portly frame convinced him, and he moved to the window and knocked on the glass. The figure looked up briefly, bathing the face in moonlight; it was Mrs Butler-Thompson. She dropped the rock she was trying to replace and hurried away.

  Ted ran to the front door and stepped out into the night, calling after her. There was no reply, and he moved to his wall for closer inspection. There was minimal damage, and he replaced the missing stone. Up close, it appeared that she might also have been digging around in the soil; there were signs that the soil had been removed in some places, but further investigation would have to wait for the morning and fresh light.

  Part Twelve

  The morning confirmed Ted’s suspicions: someone had been digging in his garden; several small depressions suggested soil had been removed. If it had been Mrs Butler-Thompson, she must have dug with her hands, as he saw no signs of tools the previous evening.

  He thought back to Jordan and his discovery of Sissy’s jawbone amongst the fresh compost. He had a moment of panic as he tried to imagine what she could have found. He was sure that he would have seen a bone when bringing the compost from the back to the front garden. You missed at least one bone, there could be more. He shook his head, and he felt his face prickle with heat as he tried to recall anything that would point to his wife’s death.

  He moved into the back garden and picked up his spade. It would only take one tiny bone. Glancing at the composter, he debated looking for any other bones, but rejected this idea; he had already removed the obvious ones and instead recommenced his work on the hole. It needed to be bigger for its purpose, so he dug the spade in and began to shovel soil.

  He dug until the sun had climbed overhead. The hole was now much deeper; standing in the hole, the ground level was just above his knees. Stepping up and out was difficult, and he had to place one hand on the floor to balance himself. He let the spade fall to the ground and moved back to the front garden. He positioned the blue and white-striped deckchair facing down the street, and lowered himself in. Did you miss anything? His mind continued to torture him.

  Half an hour later, his heart rate had returned to normal, but he felt the blood rush to his face as he saw Mrs Butler-Thompson. She was marching up the street with two ladies and a gentleman in tow. It looked like they were struggling to keep up. They know something, was his first thought. When the group arrived, the two new women looked flushed. They stood either side of Mrs Butler-Thompson at the gate.

  Ted closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply before acknowledging the group. When he spoke his voice was calm and even. “Good afternoon ladies,” he said before touching his brow towards the man that had joined them, “and gentleman. What can I do for you?”

  It was the smaller of the new women who spoke up. In her late fifties, Ted thought she could have been attractive when she was younger. She wore a straw hat and a crocheted shawl around her neck. Her voice was timid, and she stepped forward as she spoke. “Mister Harris, my name is Marjorie Secombe, and this is Cathy Olhouser.” She indicated the other woman. “As you know, the judging for the ‘Haverly in Bloom’ competition will be this weekend.”

  “It’s in the diary.” Ted patted the breast pocket on his shirt. There was no diary in there, but they didn’t know that.

  Marjorie continued. “Yes, well.” She glanced at Mrs Butler-Thompson who nodded at her to continue. “It’s been brought to our attention that you may be using chemicals to treat you plants, and as you know--”

  Ted cut her off. “By Geraldine, I assume?” It wasn’t in his nature to be antagonistic, but a man could only be pushed so far, and calling the woman by her Christian name was sure to get a rise. Mrs Butler-Thompson bristled. The muscles in her jaw tightened as she fought the urge to snap a response.

  “Well, yes. Mrs Butler-Thompson has some concerns that she feels need to be addressed, and as the chair of the Parish Council, and Judge of this year’s ‘In Bloom’ competition,” she turned and held an arm out to Cathy, “along with Cathy, of course.” Cathy tittered, blushing. Mrs Butler-Thompson cleared her throat. “Sorry, Geraldine. Mister Harris, we are sure that everything in your wonderful garden is organic, but we would like – just to make sure, you understand – Jim here,” She turned to the man who stood just behind her, “to take a few samples of the soil for testing purposes.” She clutched her hands in front of her chest and began to ring them.

  Suddenly, the previous night’s visit made sense. If they thought they were going to find something artificial, they were mistaken. There was still a body in the shed and bones in his composter, but nothing artificial. Ted thought being evasive was not a solution. He levered himself out of his chair and stood up. “Front or back?”

  “Well--”

  “You’re the judges, for goodness sake. Test them both.” Mrs Butler-Thompson didn’t turn her head, instead fixing Ted with her stare.

  “Fine with me.” He made a sweeping gesture and cut a bow as he spoke.

  Jim stepped into the front garden and knelt down. He produced his garden testing kit. Ted put his glasses on and looked at the four coloured jars in cardboard packaging.

  “Very professional. Did you buy that from Arthur’s?” The local hardware store was easily the biggest shop in the village. It stocked everything from nuts and bolts to tyres and rotary clothes dryers. If the kit was bought from round here, there was a good bet it had found a
home at Arthur’s.

  “No, Amazon actually. I picked it up for under a tenner.” Jim smiled as he looked up at Ted.

  “Mr Booner, if you please.” Mrs Butler-Thompson spoke sharply. Jim bent his head and began collecting soil. The process took a few minutes, and as he shook the test tube, he looked up and spoke to the watching women.

  “You do understand ladies, that this test will only give limited results. If you want more detailed analysis, you’re going to have to get over to the university.”

  “Just tell us what it shows, Jim.” Marjorie Secombe smiled as she spoke.

  “Well, it’s green.” He held the little tube up to the light. “That tells me the soil is a little heavy in lime.”

  “And what does that mean?” Marjorie said.

  “It means the soil PH is above 7 or so.” Jim shrugged. “It doesn’t tell me what chemicals he did or didn’t use. Sorry.” Jim stood and gathered his testing kit. “Do you still want me to test the back garden?”

  “Yes.” Mrs Butler-Thompson pushed open the gate and walked in to the garden. The others followed her round the side of the house. Ted stepped ahead of the group, and stood with his back to the large compost bin. He was sure they could see his chest moving up and down in time with his rapidly climbing pulse.

  When they were all in the back garden, the group stood on the patio, looking at the large hole and piles of earth Ted had been digging. “A new project?” Marjorie said.

  “Yes,” Ted replied, offering nothing further; he felt short of breath again.

  “Some sort of pond?”

  “Something like that, yes.” Ted was weary. He didn’t think he had any fight left in him.

  “Test the compost.” Mrs Butler-Thompson wasted no time in directing Jim to the large green compost bin. “Step aside please, Mister Harris.”